Behind the grey chain
link fence, a coyote who has worn out
the grass all over. When I stop to look
he trots to a worn adobe shell
staring sideways,
hating me.
I let my hands hang, claw fingers stuck
to the sun-hot links, let
my
hate
flay a world that would catch
a coyote, weave wire around and
give him nothing but a shell
of white-washed mud
to contain his fear
and shelter his hate.
The force of his eyes blew holes in the adobe.
In the dark his brothers sing wild hymns.
They say he was injured, that
this
is how they saved him,
death assumed to be less
than any life.
It can’t be true.
orphan poems 